A guest post by Irina Chevtaeva
Spiegel -February 26, 2024
If journalist Irina Chevtaeva returns to Russia, she could be arrested. She is ashamed of the war against Ukraine – and she mourns: because Putin took her home.
I’m standing in line in front of the black fence and getting impatient: I want to quickly get into the gray building with the Russian coat of arms at the entrance. It is the consulate in Frankfurt am Main . My passport is expiring and I have to get a new one – and my emotions are mixed up.
I am ashamed. Because on the other side of the street, Ukrainian women are demonstrating against the war. It is my country that started it. I see dozens of posters with pictures of destroyed cities, dead adults and children. It is April 2022, the war crimes in Butscha have just become known.
There are only a handful of people protesting in front of the consulate. They set up speakers. Songs in Ukrainian can be heard all over the street. The Russians with me in line avert their eyes. I see slogans: “Stop killing our families” Or: “There are no good or bad Russians. When the bad ones killed us, the good ones remained silent.”
I just want to disappear. But I have to go to the consulate. I’ve been living in Germany for a long time and can’t possibly go back to Moscow – but the Russian bureaucracy still has power over me. I need a new passport in order to renew my residence permit and continue to stay in Germany. In safety.
Ukrainian music can be clearly heard even in the building. But everyone acts as if they don’t hear anything. Me too. I grew up in Russia and I know very well the rules that apply here: I should keep calm, be polite and better not argue, even if I’m right.
But how should I behave outside? I feel like I need to show these people – the protesters with Ukrainian flags – that I stand with them. And with all my heart. I can’t find words for it. I don’t know if there are any suitable ones.
But I go to them, I’m glad they’re even talking to me. I don’t remember exactly our conversation. But I felt clumsy. I thanked you for being here. And then realized: I’m not just doing this for her. But also for myself. Now I’m even more ashamed.
Since Russia invaded Ukraine two years ago , two emotions have plagued me: pain and shame. At every possible opportunity, in conversations with friends, colleagues, on the street, I confess: My homeland has started a bloody war, I am against it. My home is creating a nightmare and I can’t change that.
Pain and shame
I donate to Ukrainian refugees, attend rallies in support of Ukraine. I observed myself: I want distance between myself and what my homeland is doing. But can it be done?
Externally yes, I have been living and working as a journalist in Germany for nine years. But internally: I am a Russian citizen, I was born in Moscow, grew up there, studied there and did my first jobs there. Wherever I am, I carry all the memories with me: the smell of oatmeal with milk from kindergarten, the warm May in Moscow Garden Ring when I fell in love for the first time, the green lampshades in the university library of Lomonosov University
But the police commands that they used to disperse demonstrations for Alexei Navalny still ring in my ears . I was in the middle of it at the time. And today I always have in mind all the images that my home country leaves behind in Ukraine, the dead in Kherson or Charkiv.
February 2023, one year after the attack: A friend, also from Russia, and I go to a solidarity concert for Ukraine in Cologne . I was sure: This must be my place – until the Ukrainian singer on stage says: “I wish every Russian death.” That hits me, but we still stay at the event until the end. I ponder: Can I understand this hatred? Kind of yes. But I can’t feel it. Would my death benefit Ukraine or the people there? Of course not.
Could I have actually done something about Russia’s invasion of Ukraine? Perhaps. I’ll have to think about this for a long time. Intellectually, I reject the principle of collective guilt: for me it means that everyone is to blame at the same time – and no one in particular. But I feel this collective guilt because I am Russian, albeit in exile for political reasons.
The Germans equate Putin with Russia
Vladimir Putin took the lives of thousands of people, only my home and the opportunity to hug my family. As a journalist, I write about the war in Russian. I want my fellow citizens to be able to get information there. I cannot return to my homeland – but it is part of me. Germany won’t let me forget this contradiction. Because many Germans equate Putin and Russia.
Here I suddenly find myself representing Russia. Before the war, German men on dates often joked that I probably liked drinking vodka. By the way, I can’t tolerate much, and that seems to be a bit of a disappointment to some. Today at every party I hear people asking me what I think about Putin. He accompanies me when friends keep asking what the Russians think of him. There are many of them, they are different, I then answer. Hundreds of Russians lay flowers for Navalny, who died in regime custody – despite the risk of being arrested.
Two years ago in Germany I was often asked: Will there be a war? Later: Will there be a nuclear war? And of course comes next: Do you miss your family? And what does she actually think about the war?
Political quickly becomes personal. Could I actually ask Germans the same personal questions? I don’t believe. Or just because, as a foreigner, I enjoy a kind of puppy protection. With the attack I realized that I now have to make Germany my home.
The political becomes personal
In the fall of 2022, I received news from my old home: My cousin was called up. We never really had contact, but I contacted him back then. I wanted to convince him not to go to war. Did I do this for Ukraine, for him or for myself?
Probably all together. He went into battle – and died in the summer. I don’t know how to process this: he is dead – like many Ukrainians. But he fought on the side of the perpetrators – which I also belong to, as much as I reject the attack on Ukraine.
I will apply for German citizenship this year. I have no illusions: I will wait a long time for her – and then I will still be Russian. But at least at some point I won’t have to go to the Russian consulate anymore.
About Irina Chevtaeva
Irina Chevtaeva , born in 1992, was born in Moscow. She studied journalism at Lomonosov University, completed funding programs in Berlin and Oxford, and was a correspondent for independent media in Moscow. She has been working at Deutsche Welle since 2015, focusing on Eastern Europe.
